


Sight Unseen

by orphan_account



Series: The Near-Miss [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 90s fic, F/M, M/M, au-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:03:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6143875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft thought it would be a quiet night out with a quiet, mousy friend of a friend -- but that's before he saw the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sight Unseen

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat AU because I'm pretty sure Mycroft was much younger at this time period -- this story takes place in early 1992, shortly after the release of Genesis' "We Can't Dance" album. Also, it being the 90s, cellphones, selfies as we know them now, and the like weren't in existence.
> 
> And as indicated, this is part of a series that will have a certain theme ...

Mycroft Holmes was not prone to violence, but the moment he stepped through the door of the pub, he resolved to punch Weatherby squarely in the nose at the first opportunity.

He knew he’d been playing with fire, allowing himself to be talked into this sort of thing. There was a very good reason that he avoided going out on dates, after all. But Weatherby had seemed sincere enough. He’d framed it not as a favor, but as something mutually beneficial, as something that might even be … _fun._

Weatherby had enthusiastically talked up this “friend” of his who was at a loose end and fancied an uncomplicated night out was a regular sort, something of a loner, quiet and thoughtful and not prone to attracting attention or causing trouble.

Mycroft was certain that the man on the middle stool, half-finished drink in his hand, _was_ all of those things, and more – lonely, suffering from a twisted ankle sustained in a pickup footie match, had been ambidextrous in youth but now considered his right as his dominant hand, had last been intimate –

Mycroft choked off a gasp when the man turned as if he sensed he were under scrutiny, and their eyes met.

Sweat beaded on the back of Mycroft’s neck and he felt his throat constrict. His hand clawed at the empty air for something to substantial to lean on, but he managed to counterbalance himself with his umbrella, planting it more firmly in the floor than was necessary. A man who was sitting on the stool closest to the door glanced up at the noise then away, losing interest rapidly.

The dark eyes of the man on the middle stool were still trained on Mycroft. There were questions in them now.

Mycroft knew he had exactly three seconds to reorder his expression and adopt an air of studied nonchalance before the man decided to slide off his chair and approach him. Already he could see tight shoulders relaxing and a tense mouth curving into a smile of relief. One leg was descending toward the floor and the man was leaning forward, gathering momentum.

Mycroft wanted to sink into the earth. Was Weatherby absolutely insane? _This_ was the man he’d thought would be “absolutely perfect” for him? The “quiet, unassuming” chap that was new to London and gasping for a night out that didn’t involve his local and a mug of ale?

When Weatherby had broached the subject and convinced him to give a night out with his friend a go, Mycroft had pictured someone with stooped shoulders, a slightly receding hairline, and somewhat artistic facial hair just to make things interesting. Mycroft blamed the resurgence of Genesis and Phil Collins for that last bit.

He blamed the resurgence of Genesis and Phil Collins for a good deal of what was currently going wrong on in the world, actually.

The man rapidly heading toward him had stubble evenly shading the lower half of his face, so that might have done for the ‘artistic’ facial hair bit, but the rest of it? No. Definitely not what he’d been expecting. How the bloody hell did Weatherby even _know_ someone so … so …

Mycroft blinked. The man walking him was quite possibly the most beautiful human being he’d ever seen. Long lashes fanned over clear, dark eyes set in a face that blended a comfortable masculinity with a delicate, almost old-world comeliness. Though he was lean and trim, his face held on to a bit of its puppy-fat roundness, which made him seem much younger than he was.

As the stranger drew near, his soft, pliable lips parted into a charming, almost bashful smile. Mycroft didn’t doubt that this man used that smile as a calling card of sorts. Doubtless anyone who’d seen it once could never forget it, and that grin likely proved to be an all-access pass into the hearts, minds, and underwear of many an unsuspecting person.

Mycroft cursed silently to himself. He hoped to goodness that Weatherby would survive the mission that had taken him to St. Moritz. He wanted the pleasure of throttling the damned man with his own hands for putting him in this intolerable –

“– Mycroft, yeah?”

Only long training at the knee of some of Britain’s most seasoned diplomats kept Mycroft afloat in this tenuous moment. From them he’d learned how to face nearly any situation, no matter how hopeless, bizarre or inconceivable, with great _sang-froid_. He was considered, among his superiors, a prodigy in this respect, in fact.

And so Mycroft was able to squelch the natural impulse to offer acknowledgment by extending his hand when the stranger addressed him by name. After all, this was – blessedly – a _blind date._ He and this man had never clapped eyes on each other, and so for all this man knew, he was _not,_ in fact, the man for whom he’d been waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour past the agreed-upon meeting time.

Mycroft had been full of excuses to give for his lateness, and now, he noted with relief, that his lack of punctuality would provide a reasonable cover story. A proper date would have taken care to be on time, yes? And would have had an apology written all over his face, correct?

“I’m sorry,” said Mycroft blankly, his gaze moving over the man’s shoulder. “I don’t think I’m who you are looking for.”

His voice carried an earnestness that he hoped the other man would not be able to pick up on, because it was – in Mycroft’s estimation – quite true. This beautiful being could _not_ possibly want to spend any sort of meaningful time with someone so … so … so … _him_.

The man’s smile vanished and he stood for a moment in slack-jawed astonishment.

“You’re not? But I thought …. Uh, I’m Greg.”

His brows knit when that declaration didn’t seem to have any effect. “You’re _not_ Jules’s friend? I thought you were –”

“You’re mistaken. I don’t have a friend named Jules.”

It wasn’t _quite_ a lie. He and Julius Weatherby were certainly _not_ going to be friends after this night.

“No?” The man squinted at him. “You aren’t?”

“I’m not. You have the wrong man, I’m afraid.”

Mycroft expected the stranger – Greg, wasn’t it? – to mutter something incoherent and slink back to his stool. He stayed put, however – a glint of suspicion darkening his remarkable eyes.

“You’re _not_ Mycroft then?”

Mycroft kept the mask in place as the two of them simply stared at each other, but he was cursing himself again, feeling himself start to panic.

He was talking too much. If it had really been a mistake, he would have brusquely dismissed Greg within the first minute. By lingering, it allowed Greg to mentally review what Weatherby must have told him would be identifying physical traits, since they had no pictures to go on. He tried not to sweat when he saw Greg closely scrutinizing his hair, his clothing, his nose –

Wait. What the bloody hell had that idiot Weatherby told this magnificent man about his ruddy _nose_?

He caught himself before he could rub the slight bump just below the bridge.

Mycroft nearly wept with happiness when he suddenly noticed a couple sitting in a forgotten corner of the restaurant. Both of them were nondescript, blandly attractive individuals in their early 30s. Neither of them had any sort of features that would make them stand out, and yet they had chosen a dim, hidden corner in which to have their romantic night out and were speaking with their heads down and hands clasped together.

The smile that stretched across Mycroft’s face was one of relief with a bit of self-satisfaction mixed in. Of _course_ he’d get out of this embarrassing predicament. How could he have doubted himself? He was Mycroft Holmes, after all. Not that this Greg chap would ever know that.

“Forgive me. I see who I am looking for tucked away over there.”

Mycroft affected a cheerful wave, knowing that he wasn’t in the sightline of his target pair, and anyway, Greg had his back to the crowd.

“They’re half in the dark, no wonder I couldn’t spot them at first.”

Greg turned then and squinted in the direction in which Mycroft was fake-waving.

“Oh – the bloke in the suit and the bird in the red dress? I saw them come in a bit ago. They didn’t exactly look as if they were expecting company.” The suspicion was back again.

“They never do,” said Mycroft in a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ll excuse me, please?”

Mycroft walked on, able to feel the dark-eyed gaze at his back as he crossed the floor and walked over to where the couple was sitting, giggling at each other and gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes.

A bottle sat between them and they both had two untouched glasses of white wine at their elbows. The woman also had a shorter, squat glass filled with a clear, carbonated liquid that had become watered down by the ice in it.

Her hand was just closing around the glass when Mycroft came abreast of their table and beamed down at them.

They both looked up, somewhat startled. Mycroft spoke rapidly between his teeth.

“Smile and look happy to see me, if you please. You certainly don’t want me announcing to this lovely restaurant that two adulterers are simpering at each other over expensive wine, now do you?”

The woman gasped, and the man’s eyes bulged. When he started to stand up, Mycroft sharpened his grin.

“… I’m also 100 percent positive that there are members of our fine police force here, as well. They might be interested to know that there is an embezzler in their midst.”

Eyes huge now, the man froze, looking rather ridiculous and very uncomfortable in his mid-crouch. The woman seemed to be hyperventilating and she grabbed for a glass of water that had not been touched and drank it down.

“Now, sir, do stand up completely,” said Mycroft, “put your hand out and smile and look as if I am the most _lovely_ sight you’ve seen all year and that you are _ever_ so glad to see me.”

The man hesitated just one more second before slowly straightening to his full height, which was several inches below Mycroft’s own. His lips trembled into a tight smile and he held out a hand that was shaking. At close quarters, the man didn’t look very pleased at all. In fact, he looked quite like a person in the midst of passing a gallstone. However, Mycroft figured that Greg was too far away to see any of those distressing details, and so it was good enough.

He grasped the man’s hand, squeezing slightly too hard before letting it go and turning to the woman.

“Madam, don’t get up. Your surprise can be used to my advantage, actually.”

Mycroft turned and gestured to a passing waiter.

“Another chair please? And a glass of gin – neat.”

The waiter raised an eyebrow but nodded and rushed to comply. Mycroft sighed happily when a third chair was brought almost immediately to the table. He was just starting to sink into it when he noticed the other man was still standing with a half-frightened, half-dazed expression.

“You can sit down now, sir.”

Mycroft watched the man collapse into the chair, his mouth still hanging open stupidly.

“Good. Now –”

“Who _are_ you?” The woman had regained a little of her composure. Her voice wavered a bit but she was glaring daggers at Mycroft. “How do you know anything about us? Did my husband hire you? Are you one of those confidential investigators?”

Mycroft snorted in amusement. “Don’t be daft, madam. Confidential investigator? I don’t even want to think about the legwork that would entail. I’m just a disinterested observer, you might say.”

The man looked terrified. “You must work for the firm, then. Are you here to take me into custody? I’ll pay back the money! I swear I still have it! Well, most of it. I only bought that little car, and that bracelet. My wife was getting suspicious of the late hours, you know …”

“Sir, please.” Mycroft held up a hand. “You’ve not touched your drink and yet you sound as if you’ve swilled the bottle. I would have arrested you, if that were the case, or arrived flanked with officers.”

The woman leaned forward. “Sod that. How did you know –”

“– That you were married? Well, to give you _your_ due, you don’t make it as laughingly obvious as your companion does. Good job on keeping up your sunbed appointments so that you don’t have a garish line where your wedding band would be,” said Mycroft, glancing at her evenly tanned hands and arms and unadorned left ring finger. Her wedding band was no doubt safely tucked in her clutch and would make its miraculous emergence when she was on the threshold of her marital home – and not a second before.

She shrugged. “I like to be sunkissed year-round. It does well for the disposition.”

Mycroft nodded gravely. He was obviously dealing with utter geniuses here.

“Not that this isn’t all _completely_ fascinating, but I require a favor of you both.”

“A favor? Have you gone _mad_?” The woman’s eyes were furious. “You, a perfect stranger, just sit down uninvited saying horrid things and expect us to do your bidding? The cheek! Frederick, if you’re not going to take care of this bounder, then I want to leave!”

“Now, Diana, sweet, calm down. Let’s not make a scene.” Frederick gave a sickly grin through clenched teeth. “Let’s at least hear what he wants before we make any rash decisions.”

“Spoken like a truly spineless drudge,” said Mycroft almost cheerfully, smiling up at the waiter who had arrived with his drink. He took a sip and made a pleased face.

“It’s not just regular Gordon’s,” said the woman, looking wistfully at Mycroft’s glass. “It’s the Old Tom. Absolutely _devastating_ in a Vesper.”

Mycroft took another sip and glanced again at the woman’s wineglass.

“Indeed,” he intoned. “Now, about that favor …?”

“No one is going to be hurt, will they?” Frederick nervously wet his lips. “I – I draw the line at any violence. A bit of – of harmless pilfering is one thing, but I won’t abide hooliganism. That simply isn’t on, for me.”

“A criminal with a conscience.” Mycroft had to smile. “You’d do quite well in my line of business. If you aren’t caught out on your prior sins, of course.”

“Really?” Frederick looked intrigued. “Do you have a business card?”

“ _If_ we do this favor, whatever it is,” Diana broke in, “will you _please leave_? We have a lot to discuss and we would rather _not_ have an audience.”

Mycroft glanced at the woman’s glass again, his lips twisting into a wry smirk.

“Indeed,” he said again. “Yes, as illuminating as I find the company of the petty criminal class –”

“– Now see here!”

“Oh, _do_ shut up and let him get it out of his system, Fred, so that we can eat in peace!”

“– I do, interestingly enough, have other matters that require my attention tonight,” finished Mycroft. “So it is in all our best interest that we wrap things up quickly, yes?”

“Well …”

“Yes, fine!” Diana pressed a hand to her forehead. “Just tell us what you need us to do, so that we can get on with it! You’re doing my head in, and it _didn’t_ need any help there.”

“Very well.” He paused when the waiter hovered close. A small frown and a negative shake of the head was all it took to shoo him away.

“Now, _try_ , please to use a bit more discretion than you’ve displayed in your … prior activities and casually look round the restaurant, focusing your attention toward the front area. There may be a man sitting at the bar, or, perhaps, standing near it …”

Mycroft rapidly described Greg Lestrade, taking care to keep his voice and his eyes low.

“You will tell me if he is still there. _If_ he is and he is looking in this direction, you will signal that by laughing loudly as if we are in the most _scintillating_ conversation. You keep watch on him and tell me, as well, when he leaves – which, if he is still here, should follow very shortly. I will wait a few moments to ensure that he is truly out of the area. And then I’ll leave you to your … _discussion_.”

Frederick looked uneasy. “Why are you hiding from this bloke? You don’t owe him any money or anything, do you?”

“ _No,_ I don’t owe him any money. I don’t owe him anything.” Mycroft’s voice was faintly indignant. “And I’m not _hiding_ from him. He mistakenly believes that I am someone he was due to meet here.”

“And _you_ aren’t that person?”

Mycroft hesitated a moment.

“No,” he said at last, his voice soft. “ _I’m_ not who that gentleman is looking for.”

That seemed to satisfy Frederick, but Diana was eyeing Mycroft with an indecipherable expression that made him slightly uneasy.

“Well then, go to it, if you please? The clock is ticking.”

The couple exchanged a pained glance but began what Mycroft had to acknowledge was a neatly surreptitious survey of the crowd. He reckoned that having spent such a long period cheating on their partners and defrauding companies, they _would_ have a good idea on how to gauge their surroundings without seeming obvious. There were some lads at MI5 that could have done with their tutelage.

“I think your friend’s gone,” said Frederick, turning his eyes toward Mycroft without moving his face. “There’s no one at the bar now except for an out-of-condition bloke in a rumpled suit, and a woman with her neckline cut down to her –”

“– No wait, I see him. He was on the other side of the pillar, near the ladies’. His coat is the same color as the Spurs flag in the corner, so he sort of blends in.”

“Oh, well-spotted, dearest. I see him now. Interesting jacket, that. Zegna, most likely. Ill-tailored, unfortunately.”

“Well?” Mycroft forced himself to sound unconcerned, and to not correct Fred's supposition. The jacket was some off-brand attempt at mimicing one of Leigh Bowery's tamer designs. Still, Greg looked fitter than was fair in it. “What is he doing?”

“Nothing, really. He’s just standing there,” said Frederick. “Wait, now, he’s looking at his watch … he’s looking toward the door. I suppose he’s still waiting for whoever it is he mistook you for. He doesn’t seem happy.”

Mycroft poked his tongue into his cheek. _Well, I’m sure he’d be much less happy sharing a pint of bitter with someone so … well …_

“Hmmmm.” Frederick’s voice was musing.

“Hmmmm? Could you, if you please, elaborate on _hmmmm_?”

“Well, you said this chap would be leaving soon,” Frederick said, “but it looks like he’s going back to the bar. It must be important that he meet this person whoever he – bugger it – I can’t see him now, he’s gone behind the pillar again!”

“ _I_ see him.”

There was a frisson of excitement in Diana’s voice, as if she’d warmed to the little game. She was better at it than her companion; her expression was one of such a studied indifference that even Mycroft had to admire it.

“He _is_ at the bar again. He’s sitting down. I think he –”

Mycroft jumped a little when Diana suddenly placed her hand over his and threw her head back, letting out a peal of laughter. He blinked at her and just managed not to snatch his hand away when he remembered their prearranged signal.

A chill crawled up the back of his neck. What the hell was this Greg person doing? Why was he looking in their direction? _Why was he still there_?

He forced a chuckle and patted the hand atop his. Frederick looked none-too-pleased at the touching, which suited Mycroft’s purposes just fine. It would, he mused, possibly look slightly suspicious if they all appeared to be having a good time – even if, as he’d told Greg, he was expected, he was, in effect, a third wheel, after all. The dynamics had to be just so, and Frederick’s stroppiness was just in line with that.

“Very good,” said Mycroft through a grin that felt like a rictus. “Is he still watching us?”

Diana feigned looking round for a waiter, her eyes doing a casual sweep of the space.

“No,” she murmured, squinting at some imagined point in the distance. “He’s turned away again. He’s speaking to the bartender now. Getting another drink I suppose … oh. How interesting.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“I think you can remove your hand now, sir,” Frederick cut in with an acid tone. “If the bloke isn’t looking over here now –”

Mycroft just barely kept from punching the man in the teeth. On reflection, he thought that maybe it would help – _Fred’s_ bridgework was for shit. He could use some of his ill-gotten gains on a licensed dentist, maybe.

He kept his hand atop the woman’s as he asked, “ _What_ is so interesting, Diana?”

“I thought the barkeep was pouring him another drink,” said Diana, bringing her gaze back in line with Mycroft’s. Her eyes looked puzzled. “He brought him a _phone_. He’s ringing someone. The bloke you’re after is ringing someone, I mean. _Not_ the barkeep.”

“I’m not –”

Mycroft went silent, swallowing almost imperceptibly. He noted the slightest tremble in his hand as it rested atop Diana’s, but was confident in the knowledge that neither of his companions had seen anything. He moved his hand away and tried not to sneer at Frederick’s relieved exhalation of breath. Mycroft suddenly felt slightly sorry for the woman – by virtue of her good looks and her intelligence, she would always be freighted with assuaging her lover’s fragile ego.

“He’s ringing someone? Are you sure?”

“Yes. He looks a bit hacked-off, actually. He’s still not looking – oh, he did glance over here again, but it was only for a second. I don’t think his party has picked up yet.”

Mycroft lifted his glass. The gin, which had tasted quite fine a few moments before, seemed to go down his throat in a tasteless lump. Greg was tenacious. It would have been sexy if it weren’t so inconvenient at the moment. It was clear that he was ringing Weatherby, if nothing else to chew out his friend for sending him on a useless errand, but more likely to get a more solid description of the bloke he was to meet. Mycroft could only feel immense relief that Weatherby hadn’t thought to give the man a picture.

But it was all right. Mycroft knew that he really had no reason to worry. Weatherby's Alpine assignment was top secret, and his whereabouts known only to a few. He wasn’t married nor was he seeing anyone, and he lived alone.

Possibly Weatherby had directed his calls to a service, but more likely he was relying on an answering machine to collect any messages while he was away. It wouldn’t occur to Greg to call Weatherby’s office. It was after-hours, anyway, and he seemed like the type who would avoid bothering someone at their place of work.

Over his glass, Mycroft risked a look in Greg’s direction. The man’s back was to the rest of the dining room and he held the receiver in a tight grip. His mouth was moving somewhat mechanically, almost as if he were speaking without pause and without taking regular breaths.

 _Ah. He’s gotten the machine, then_.

Mycroft felt his shoulders loosen and he could actually taste his drink then. He was now sure that Greg would give it all up as a bad job and finally leave. The deduction was a laughably simple one, and so when Greg replaced the receiver with a fraction more force than was likely necessary and groped absently for a jacket that hung on the back of a chair, Mycroft couldn’t find it within himself to feel very smug.

He watched the man push the phone in the barkeep’s direction, give a curt nod and throw a few banknotes on the counter. Without looking in any direction except that which led toward the exit, Julius Weatherby’s good friend Greg walked out into the rapidly darkening evening, made a sharp turn once outside, and soon disappeared from view.

“He’s gone.”

Mycroft was glad of the glass at his lips – it somewhat obscured what he was sure was a startled expression. It wasn’t so much that Diana had spoken, or even what she had said, but _how_ she had said it. There was no question there, just flat statement, and an inquisitive glint in her eyes that would have looked overwrought on someone else.

“You seem so much more relaxed,” she said in explanation, using a tone that was much warmer than any she’d used to that point. “Even your face looks younger. I assumed it was because you saw him leaving.”

“Yes. I assume he finally got the right end of the stick and decided to continue his night elsewhere.”

“Or he got the _wrong_ end of it.”

Mycroft stared. Diana’s eyebrows were high and she took a rather prim sip of her club soda. He wondered if he had it wrong – maybe _Diana_ was the one who should be recruited for MI5. She was much more perceptive than she looked, and certainly had much more gumption than her companion.

Frederick frowned and turned his entire body toward the bar, just as if he’d been a wooden dummy on a platform. He was still frowning when he turned back around, and he eyed Mycroft in mild suspicion.

“What _was_ that all about? Who was that fellow?”

“He told me his name.” Mycroft waved a hand. “As I was obviously not the person he was seeking, it meant nothing to me.”

“You mean you’d never clapped eyes on him before tonight?”

“Never.” The words came out smoothly, since they were entirely true.

“Then who is it he thought you were?”

“Who knows?” Mycroft lifted his shoulders. “The man of his dreams, perhaps?”

Diana’s eyebrows jumped, but Frederick, after gawking at him in incomprehension, laughed loudly.

“No, _really_ , who did he think you were?”

Mycroft felt the loose smirk pulling at one side of his mouth suddenly vanish. Diana’s head whipped toward Frederick and she seemed on the verge of saying something sharp judging by the creases in her forehead, but after a second she bit her lip, sliding Mycroft a sideways glance that he had no problems deciphering. One that clearly stated that this was neither the time, nor the place, nor the person with which to air … certain subjects.

“As I said, I’d never seen him before. He was mistaken, and he seemed rather insistent. I didn’t wish to make a scene, and so here we are.”

Mycroft glanced at his watch and then at the door. Traffic was heavy on the street and on the pavement as people who were loitering in the ring of pubs located on that block had finally come to the realization that it was time to head back to their dreary suburban lives. Greg was certainly caught up in the exodus. Maybe he’d been fortunate enough to snag a cab first thing.

“I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.” Mycroft smiled tightly, taking out his billfold and leaving a pile of bills next to his half-finished drink. “Thank you for your cooperation, and enjoy the rest of your evening – and your lives, come to that.”

“Hold it, that’s much too much money,” said Frederick, staring down at the table. “You only had the one drink. I –”

“It’s the least I can do,” said Mycroft, standing and getting into his coat. “You both were an invaluable asset. Also, congratulations _are_ in order, yes?”

Frederick looked up at him, his eyes puzzled. “Congratulations? What do you mean?”

“Well, you _are_ …”

Mycroft glanced out of the corner of his eye at Diana, but what he saw in his periphery gave him pause. He turned to look at her more closely, noting her suddenly rigid posture and her attempt to reorder her expression into one of indifference.

He caught the very slight negative motion she made with her head and chewed the inside of his cheek, weighing his options.

On the one hand, they _were_ adulterers and thieves. Well, technically, only one of them fell into the second category, but the other was complicit there, as well.

Mycroft abhorred liars, but what really burned his toast were the well-heeled, smooth-faced prevaricators who thought nothing of themselves and their own pleasures, not caring about the ruin and rubble they would inevitably leave behind. The pair before him were textbook examples of the latter, two people fortunate enough to have had conventional attractiveness bestowed upon them and were able to leverage more-than-average intelligence into a sly cunning that allowed them to travel under the radar and take what they wished.

But Mycroft then recalled Frederick’s disbelieving laughter of a few moments earlier, and Diana’s fleeting look of disdain at her partner’s misplaced mirth. The movement had been nearly imperceptible – even he had almost missed it. _Almost.  
_

There had been, however, much in that small shift of eyes that said a great deal about this woman in red, drinking club soda that was certainly now going flat.

Mycroft read the tense dread in her eyes now and made his decision.

“You _are_ … wearing a very smart tie. Very few men can pull off that shade of mustard.” Mycroft took a breath and forced a smile. “And therefore … congratulations! Good evening.”

Turning on his heel, Mycroft marched toward the door, wondering why his limbs felt so heavy and ungainly. He hadn’t been sitting down very long, nor had the chairs been uncomfortable, and he hadn’t even finished his drink, so he couldn’t have been affected in that way, yet his arms and legs seemed to want to move independently of one another, and his neck felt stiff and sore.

He almost lurched toward the exit, rubbing the back of his neck in slow circles. A hot bath would set him to rights. That and, perhaps, a slightly more decadent more dinner than he’d planned. With dessert.

In the din of the crowd near the bar, he hadn’t heard the footsteps until it was almost too late, but it didn’t matter. Mycroft stiffened at the hand on his shoulder, exhaling slowly before turning round to face her.

Diana stood before him, her eyes searching his face.

“How? How did you know?”

Mycroft sighed and guided her to the area behind the pillar – her companion’s literal blind spot, though a quick glance saw Frederick chatting to the waiter, gesturing grandly at something on the menu.

He turned to her and shrugged, wishing that he were already home and running the water in his bathtub.

“It was quite simple, really. You’re a connoisseur. Your companion, a poseur. You weren’t born to wealth and status, but you’ve acquired it – through a neatly beneficial marriage, I would assume. Your companion also was not born to such things, but he likes to pretend he was – with other people. Not with you. Never with you. He knows you would see right through him. His attempts to please you in his attire are hit or miss –”

“– I knew you weren’t serious about that tie …”

He smiled briefly. “– but he allows you to guide him in all other things. Investments. Ways in which to spend the proceeds that he has skimmed from his business. The right things to order at restaurants. The right things to _drink_.”

Mycroft gave her a pointed look. Her forehead creased and then her eyes widened in realization. For at least the third time that evening, Mycroft allowed himself to be impressed.

“You knew that I was drinking Gordon’s Old Tom, even though I simply asked for a neat gin,” said Mycroft. “You also persuaded _Fred_ to order a lovely Seyval Blanc ’89 – though I prefer the ’85, myself.”

“So do I.” Her voice was faint. “They don’t carry it here.”

“Not shocking. It’s in short supply all over,” said Mycroft. “At any rate, there are only a handful of reasons that someone so well-versed in fine wines and spirits would be drinking only club soda when a full wine goblet is at her elbow. You don’t appear to have an addictive personality to me. That left only two other options, narrowed down to one when you complained of having a headache and pointed out that the gentleman I was keeping watch on was standing near the ladies’. You and your companion arrived not long before I did, and it’s obvious you’ve never been here before – you and Fred are careful not to frequent any one place very often. So you could not have known where the ladies’ was beforehand. Yet, you were aware of where it was located – vital, of course, for a woman in your condition who would likely have need of it because of the … forgive me … increased pressure on your bladder.”

That made her laugh. “You sound so technical. Are you a doctor, then? Been around a lot of pregnant women?”

“Hardly. On both counts.”

Diana laughed again and glanced over her shoulder. “I told Fred I needed to ring my husband, so that he wouldn’t expect me in for dinner. But he gets antsy. Fred that is. Not my husband.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you for not telling him.” Diana looked down at herself, smoothing a hand over her stomach. “I’m not sure I want to tell him – or if I will.”

“But you _were_ going to tell him. That’s why you came here.”

“Yes. But that was before you sat down.” She shook her head. “I … don’t know now. I’m not sure what I should do. I know it’s not fair to my husband. He is a good man, but I never loved him. Or did you know that, too?”

Mycroft sighed softly and lifted a shoulder.

“Right. Silly question, I suppose, considering. I know it’s wrong. I simply feel … desperate.” She looked around again. “I don’t expect you to understand and I’m not trying to excuse my actions. My parents died when I was 12. My sister was barely 2. We were shunted from one bored relative to another until I met Horace – my husband, when I was 21. He was wealthy, kind, and recklessly generous. I saw the possibilities – beautiful home and clothes for my sister and myself. Wonderful schools for her. More money than we could spend in a lifetime. It seemed perfect. But I’m 34 now. Horace is unable to father children, though he keeps saying the doctors are blaggers who don’t know what they’re about. And my sister had that brilliant schooling and is out of university and on adventures, and contacts me only when she catches a fancy. She doesn’t need me anymore. No, strike that – she doesn’t need _anyone_ , but _especially_ not me.”

There was a darkly bitter edge to the last sentence, and Mycroft briefly thought of Sherlock, moldering away at university at the very minute, ignoring his calls and letters, and telling their parents the most outrageous lies about how he was using his allowance and just what those bruises on his arms were.

He swallowed down a sudden sour taste in his mouth, chalking it up to the gin.

“I know that Fred is silly, vain and a bit of a weakling,” she went on. “I also do believe I love him.” Her voice was colored with doubt. “I think he would make me happy. I want this child, but I … I was so certain that I wished to ride off with Fred into the sunset. Now …”

“I’m not here to judge nor give you absolution,” said Mycroft, shoving aside the specter of his little brother’s disregard and his … questionable activities. “You are free to do as you will. You asked me a question, and I answered it. I decided against … _spilling_ the beans, because I realized that it was not my place, and that you were having second thoughts about disclosing your condition. Perhaps that is the one truly intelligent thing you’ve done throughout your association with _Fred_. Now, I think you should likely get back to your companion before he comes looking for you.”

She looked hurt at his brusque dismissal, but after a second, squared her shoulders and regarded him with the same elegant disdain that had greeted him after he’d sat at her table and made his _request_. Mycroft looked out toward Frederick and saw him with his wrist outstretched. He was admiring his fine watch, which was slipping to one side because the band was too loose.

He spoke again, just as she began to turn her back on him.

“Madam.”

Diana hesitated but finally turned round again, her arms framing a stomach that, at close scrutiny, one could see was just beginning to round out at the bottom.

“He will be in jail before the child is in primary school. Whatever whimsy you think exists in him will be eroded by that experience. And the man who will eventually come out of High Down will not be something that you will want for yourself or your child.”

Mycroft took out a card and handed it to her. “If you find you can extricate yourself from him, my department might have use of a woman of your intelligence and cleverness.”

She looked down at the card, frowning. “You were going to give Fred one of these.”

“His isn’t a skillset I covet. We have enough embezzlers and chiselers as it is.”

Diana smiled at him, though Mycroft could tell she hadn’t wanted to.

“I … may take you up on that offer, Mr … Mycroft Holmes?” She looked rapidly at the card and then up at him again. “Is that your actual name?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” He inclined his head. “Good luck to you, whatever you decide, Mrs. … er …”

“Diana will do,” she said. “Diana Adler, if we must be formal, but I don’t insist upon it. “

“Good evening then, Mrs. Adler.”

She grinned at him and shook her head.

“ _Ms._ Adler. I held on to my maiden name even after marriage. Horace squawked, but I insisted. He let it go when I pointed out that it was all that I had left of my parents.”

Diana started to move away, but then stopped and regarded him quietly for a few seconds.

“That man that was here, the one who thought you were _someone else_. Who was he, really?”

Mycroft looked out into the fading light and saw the shapeless mass of humanity headed for the trains, the buses, the taxis, the rest of their lives …

“That, Ms. Adler, is something I don't think I will ever know,” said Mycroft, as he buttoned his coat and prepared to join the throng.


End file.
